Influence
by idodi
Summary: This is, basically, all of Court Duel from Vidanric's eyes, and answers all of those pesky questions about what happened with Tamara, why he decided to send Mel the ring, and what HE felt during their correspondence while following the original plot.
1. A Walk in the Rain

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Sherwood Smith. Nothing belongs to me.

It was raining. Vidanric Renselaeus paused a moment to savor the fact, letting the little droplets splash onto his scalp and run down his face. He knew he could – and probably should – go back into the sumptuous suite provided for him at Athanarel, but somehow the image of being cooped up among the overstuffed cushions and polished silver filled him with a sense of claustrophobia. No, it was better to stay out here for now, wandering the manicured gardens on his own, and let the courtiers twitter from safely behind their windows.

A turn in the path brought him to the rose garden, a secluded area designed almost solely for romance. Here, a beautifully sculpted bench just large enough for two; there, another hidden behind a tactfully large row of bushes. The irony struck him just as it had many times before – the benches represented both faces of court, the face that wanted everyone to notice and the face that preferred to hide in the shadows – but even as he smiled wryly, a chain of new thoughts chased the smirk away.

Reaching out, he plucked a white rose from one of the bushes nearest to him and twirled it idly by the end of the stem. So many at court chose to know romance, but so few knew love. It seemed that as long as they kept their masks of careful contemplated indifference, they couldn't know love – no one would be honest enough to admit it to themselves or anyone else. So they frittered the time away, doing what others thought they should when it came to affairs of the heart and never truly happy – all save Bran and Nee, who were the least assuming out of everyone and were therefore able to fall completely in love with each other.

A pang struck Vidanric as he realized he could never be as open as Bran, due simply to the nature of his upbringing, and even if he wanted to be there was no one at court he could possibly imagine loving. The stories made it clear that love struck suddenly, without warning and perhaps concerning people one had known for a long time – but who could he have a sudden realization about? Too many court ladies were cold and uncaring, only seeking to further their own ends. He could never imagine loving one of them, but – even worse – he was going to have to pretend someday. The kingdom needed a queen.

Sharp pain lanced through his finger and he looked down ruefully at where a hidden thorn had pierced his skin. A point of scarlet welled up only to be washed away by a luckily placed raindrop, but his reverie was over. Turned slowly, he focused instead on the immaculate stone face of the Residence, then looked back at the rose in his hand.

_What had become of Meliara?_ He didn't know what made him think of her at that moment, except maybe for the fact that being out among the plants, in the rain, would never fail to remind him of the countess. She had been forthright, uneducated but determined all the same, pushing forward with a persistence that had always surprised him. And she had made it startlingly clear that she hated him, seemingly for more than simply the unfortunate circumstances of their first encounter. And she had left – left her brother, who was perfectly happy to be in his care – rather than stay in his household.

He realized with a twinge of amusement that he was unintentionally shaking his head. He wished that she didn't hate him – possibly more so that _she_ didn't hate him than he would have wished for anyone else not to – but there seemed to be no way to correct past prejudices. She had already made it obvious she was never going to go to Remalna-City again if she could help it, although he doubted it was just because she didn't want to be reminded of past experiences. After all, everyone in court had gone through things they would never want to remember again – but they recovered, and were now trying to go about their lives as usual. And he told himself it was remarkably self-centered to assume that he was a key factor in her reluctance to come, but was forced to admit that it seemed likely.

Suddenly, he had to stop thinking about a topic that was becoming too painful for him, and made up his mind to go back to his rooms. Starting forward, he stopped when another person rounded the path in his direction. The figure of Lady Tamara Chamadis sheltered by an umbrella materialized through the rain, apparently too lost in thought to notice him – he knew she had noticed him as soon as he came into view, or maybe even from a window, and was just waiting for him to make the first sign of recognition. Two could play at that game; he looked down at his rose and kept walking even when he sensed her eyes on him.

"Vidanric! I must admit, I did not expect to meet _you_ here. Do you just like the rain, or did you have a particular reason for being out here?" He stopped and looked at her, her sapphire eyes boring into his own.

"I could say the same to you," he replied, shrugging noncommittally. Courtesy and his own nature dictated that he must be polite and attentive; they did not require that he be effusive. If he were to behave this way to anyone else, he would feel guilty – but he knew both that she wouldn't mind and that he was going to be required to pay much more respect to her in the future if her attentions continued to increase.

Indeed, she merely smiled in a way that could be seen either as charming or predatory and made the quick gesture for a good hit with her fan. "Since we appear to be the only ones insane enough to walk in this weather, why don't we stroll together? I have recently desired your opinion on several manners." He recognized a trap set by a master – what's more, _she_ knew he recognized it. Giving her a half bow, he moved to her side and they began the circuit around the Residence.


	2. Messages

Disclaimer: All of this is Sherwood Smith's; none of it is mine. 

Vidanric returned to the Residence around mid-afternoon, leaving Lady Tamara at the entrance and quickly making the way to his rooms. He passed no one on the way, which he was grateful for; his clothing was soaked through and he could only imagine the gossip that was already circulating about his long stroll with Tamara. Of course, he realized grimly, this was exactly her intent – she had him in her sights, and what could he do to shake her off?

His thoughts turned to Russav, like they did every time he found himself confronted with Lady Tamara. Her actions had not only managed to pave the way for future courtship – after all, after she had made it so blindingly clear she was set on him he couldn't possible steer clear of her –, they had put up a thin wall between him and Russav that had never been there before. Russav knew it wasn't his fault, he was sure of it, but there was always something heartbreaking about seeing the one you most desire chase after someone else simply because of the circumstances of his lineage. He wished he could just come right out and say to Russav that he had never wanted this – but he couldn't without compromising his natural sense of tact.

Sighing slightly, he opened the door to his rooms. The first thing that occupied his attention was the small table by the doorway reserved for his personal correspondences; sacks of letters related to his duties were brought in daily. There were two notes, both bound, one with an unmarked seal and one with a seal he recognized immediately. He picked up the latter first, cracking the seal with one curt motion and unfurling the paper –

"Don't bother reading that one," came a voice from the corner. Vidanric didn't jump, but turned around quickly to come face-to-face with Branaric. The man had been sitting in a chair by the window, but now rose, grinning broadly. "Well, I sent that note ahead, you see – thought there was no way you'd be anywhere but your rooms in weather like this. Guess I was wrong. But anyway, I got sick of waiting for your reply and decided to come here to wait for you instead. And don't pretend you have some official business to rush off to and can't hear everything I have to say – I am keeping you in this room until you listen."

"Now, my dear Count, would I do a thing like that?" Vidanric infused every aspect of his speech with the court drawl that stood out in sharp contrast to Bran's still-unaltered way of speaking. Then, adopting a more serious manner, he motioned Bran once more to the chair by the window and took the one next to it. "What do you have to tell me?"

"Well, you know I promised to visit Mel as soon as the roads cleared." Vidanric nodded. "And I thought it would be a fine surprise if you and Nee and I _all_ left for Tlanth this week. You need a break – it was your mother who approached me with the idea of bringing you along, actually. You need to get away from," he waved his arms about, "all this."

"Hmm." Vidanric tilted back in his seat, clasping his long fingers and contemplating their tips. "To be quite honest with you, a trip out of here sounds most tempting. Yet I honestly do not know if I can spare the time. I will try to get most of my unfinished affairs out of the way today, and let you know by this evening."

Bran rose and heaved a sigh. "Well, I guess that I don't know what you're actually doing – not enough to tell you I don't care if you have official business, anyway. But it would be a shame if the future king collapsed from exhaustion, that's all I'm saying."

Vidanric smiled and stood to show him out, then turned back to the other note on the table. It was crisp, unstained, written, he noticed as he unrolled it, in the hand of one who didn't waste time on trivialities. And it bore one, simple sentence: _The Marquise of Merindar has sent a message to Countess Meliara Astiar._

He reread the line again without seeing it. The marquise's intentions were obvious – she wanted an Astiar supporting her, a national hero people would recognize as wanting the best for Remalna. But the main question was how the countess would respond. Would she see past the marquise's plans and make her own decision? Or would she be blinded by her lack of experience with courtiers – and, he realized grimly, her dislike of him – and willingly join the marquise in whatever she had set up?

A sharp rap at the door jolted him out of his reverie. It was a runner, bringing him another message, this time from his mother. He barely thought about the short message she left him – _You're going. Pack your belongings tonight_. He had already made up his mind to go to Tlanth.


	3. She Hates Court?

Disclaimer: All of this belongs to Sherwood Smith. None of it belongs to me. 

Author's Note: This is a particularly slow chapter, unfortunately, but I wanted to include a few things. I tried to make it short so I can move on to things that are actually in the book…

Vidanric rode in the carriage at first, uncomfortably placed across from Bran and Nimiar. He would rather have set out on his horse, which was currently being guided by the servants, but the courtiers watching expected him to leave in a carriage. He regretted the chance to collect his thoughts, though – there had been no opportunities in the days before their departure, what with the huge amount of work he had to complete and the twittering courtiers asking him about his impending trip, and now Bran and Nee's conversation distracted him as they bounced over the dirt roads.

Eventually, the conversation changed from their plans for Tlanth to the countess, as he knew they must. Nee opened the topic by turning directly to Bran and asking, "So, what is your sister like? I've only been able to develop a partial picture from what you've let slip, and so far all I really know for sure is that she's nothing like you."

Bran snorted. "Life! That's a pretty good description already. Mel is… well, she has a temper, that's for certain. And she hates court – she was raised to, but I think she took it further than I ever did. I honestly don't know what to expect from her when we show up. She's – I don't understand her, usually, and I can't predict anything she's planning to do."

Nee frowned, obviously troubled. "She hates court? Is that why she never came?" The question was simple, but her mask slipped a little and Vidanric could see a touch of nervousness. Apparently Bran was more attuned to Nee's emotions than anyone else's, because he also looked at her for a long moment.

"Don't worry, Nee. She's going to love you once she gets to know you. Don't you think so, Danric?" He turned towards Vidanric for reassurance, and he felt put on the spot. There was so much he could say, about how he wasn't the best person to ask since in one of their last encounters Meliara had thrown a candlestick at him, about how he wished it were that easy, about how ever since he had last seen the countess he had repeatedly returned to thinking about how he could have done things differently.

Instead, he slapped on his best court mask and nodded, adding, "You'll probably get to see much more of her, too, if she comes to Athanarel for the wedding."

Bran slapped his forehead. "I hadn't even thought about that! Of course she'll come for the wedding!" Nee smiled hesitantly, then turned to look out the window. Vidanric had the feeling he was not the only one lost in thought about the countess.

They had been traveling for about a candle-mark, although there was no way to tell time in the carriage, when they came to a stopping-point. Vidanric quickly took his leave of the coach, sensing they'd probably much rather be alone anyway, and found his horse among the rest of the animals. The servants seemed surprised to see a noble – and the future king at that – choosing to ride a horse, as they always did. Some thought he was putting on airs by associating with those not of noble lineage, others thought he was trying to appear more human – the truth was not as self-centered as either of those explanations. Vidanric hated carriages; they made him sick. He preferred riding out in the open, away from people, galloping ahead at whatever speed he wanted without being hindered by the whims of the driver.

Soon they set off again, and he quickly drew ahead; he remembered the route to Tlanth from those awful days the previous year. When all that was before him was the narrow ribbon of dirt road, lines by forests and farms and villages, he turned his mind to the countess – and the letter. How did he intend to persuade her not to support the marquise, when she would surely see such actions merely as an attempt to get her to support him? Whatever he said could surely be taken as political maneuvering, and she was unlikely to trust what others said about him simply because of her inherent dislike of courtiers in general. His friendship with Bran wouldn't do him any good, either, as he knew she felt her brother was too easily taken in by courtiers with ulterior motives.

No, either he would have to convince her he was the best choice himself or risk her supporting the marquise – and part of him knew that damaging as this would be to his potential kingship, the real reason he wanted to stop this was because he couldn't bear to see her actively working against him. Yet there was nothing he could do except wait and see what happened. As it was, he believed Meliara had the good sense to make her own decisions – but she would need to go to Athanarel and see for herself, and so far she hadn't seemed willing to…

His thoughts continued in this vein for some time, until he realized that he was drawing close to Tlanth. The corner of his mouth twitched as he imagined the countess's reaction to his showing up first, unannounced and alone. It would certainly be better to arrive with the others – so he turned and urged his horse the other way. In terms of his dealings with the countess, there was always safety in numbers, and she might be less likely to lash out at him with her brother and future sister-in-law watching.


	4. Unwelcome Welcome

Disclaimer: This all belongs to Sherwood Smith. I'm just having some fun with her characters.

Vidanric easily rejoined the group of riders, staying in silent thought as they made their way up the final stretch to the main residence. The warning bells rang freely as they approached the building, the same bells he remembered from his enforced tour of the county a year back. The man in the tower showed no signs of recognizing him, which Vidanric was grateful for; he had no idea how many of Meliara's opinions had spread to those around her, and he would prefer for as little people as possible to hate him if he was going to be staying in Tlanth for an extended period of time.

As they entered the courtyard, he caught a brief glimpse of the countess, standing with two other women, before he was caught up in the tide of riders dismounting. Bran and Nimiar had not disembarked from their carriage yet, so he lingered by his horse, waiting until his line of sight cleared to observe her more carefully. Yes, there she was – the Meliara Astiar he remembered, fierce and fiery, staring at the huge amount of carriages in surprise and murmuring hurriedly to the others. She was dressed simply, wrapped in a blanket even while the others were obviously clad in their best, making no false pretenses for her brother. And somehow, he realized, while her features had been memorable before, they were even more captivating now - when free of the open dislike playing across her face. A strange emotion seized him – regret? Wishing that she would look like that when talking to _him_? – and he quickly busied himself with tending to his horse.

When he looked back, Bran and Nee were walking up the steps towards Meliara, who stood there alone and gaping. Vidanric was quickly overcome by acute embarrassment for her – she obviously had not been expecting her brother to bring a court lady, and was neither prepared nor able to deal with such a thing on the spur of the moment. Had Bran ever told her about his impending engagement? He was sure the man would have broken the news to his sister immediately – and yet, his failure to was the only thing that could explain the look of shock on Meliara's face. He winced slightly as he realized this could not be a good sign to Nee, who was already nervous enough about the countess's dislike of court; having her future sister-in-law stand there staring at her with no sign of welcome was far from reassuring.

As he watched, Bran bounded up and embraced his sister, who seemed more than willing to return the gesture. They had a quiet conversation while Nimiar remained on the front step, lost in thought, and Vidanric resolved to not wait any longer. He walked forward in time to catch the last thing Bran said, "– the place isn't such a rattrap anymore, I thought why not make the trip fun and bring 'em?"

If the countess had seemed unable to be any more flummoxed than she already was, this latest revelation shattered any such assumption. Her eyes widened further and developed a vaguely panicked look as she whispered, "Them?" She looked around, possibly for a whole troop of finely-clad courtiers laughing behind open fans at her unassuming appearance, and then her eyes settled on him. A mess of emotions flashed across her face – recognition, surprise, disbelief, and, for some inexplicable reason, something like fear. He tried to think of something witty to say, something that would put her mind at ease, but his usual ability to think seemed to be frozen. Everything else was blocked out; all he could see was her looking at him in distrust and dismay, the same way she had looked at him when he had been falsely tracking her a year ago.

How did one respond to such obvious hatred? How could he ever change her mind about him? There was no doubt in his mind that he wanted to – although he couldn't quite explain why – and there was no doubt that while the letter from the marquise was the main reason he had come here, a hidden part of him had also wished to right old misunderstandings. But how could he do that if one of her first responses to his presence was fear?

Bran, with his customary sense of clueless good timing, waved his arm carelessly. "Yes. Nimiar – and Danric there, whom you already know." He added, glancing around at a large entrance hall he clearly had not expected to be handsomely furnished, "Life, sister, why are there trees in here? Aren't there enough of 'em outside?"

Vidanric could feel the countess's acute embarrassment as she flushed a violent shade of red, and once again racked his brain for something he could say. Yet somehow, he knew that anything he could say at the moment would only increase the countess's agitation – and Nee was already stepping forward with a comment on how her own home was furnished in a similar style. Meliara and Nee shook hands, the countess with a valiant attempt at the same easy grace that Nee had been taught in court.

"Welcome. I hope… you'll enjoy it here," Meliara arranged her face into a stiff smile, but – unlike those at court who knew their fake smiles were enough to pass off as real – seemed ashamed at the lack of genuine good nature she could dredge up. Reflecting on this for a moment, Vidanric realized he had never seen her truly smile. Even in the short amount of time they had spent as equals, she had never truly felt comfortable enough in his presence to let down the wary mask. Again, something inside him twisted at this knowledge. Was there anything he could do to erase her dislike of him?

Taking his chance, and knowing that it would seem impolite if he were to say nothing, he stepped forward, too. Mustering up the hint of a smile, trying not to let his own personal qualms show, he stepped up the steps and inside. "Do you have a welcome for me?" As Meliara responded with forced heartiness, he inwardly kicked himself. There was no need to bring up the past – and her feelings about him. Maybe, if he could prove throughout the visit that he was not the tyrant she had clearly painted him as, the tension would dissipate.


End file.
